


Oh, You Pretty Things

by InvincibleRodent



Series: Raymond Trevelyan [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Backstory, Drabble, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Other, Stream of Consciousness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-03
Updated: 2015-05-03
Packaged: 2018-03-28 20:01:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,636
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3867997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvincibleRodent/pseuds/InvincibleRodent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A short, stream of consciousness style drabble about the life of Inquisitor Raymond Trevelyan, from childhood to triumph.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Oh, You Pretty Things

**Author's Note:**

> This is completely self-indulgent. I... really have no excuse. I care about this nerd way too much.  
> I seem to be unable to take titles from anywhere but songs- this one is from David Bowie. :)

He is 9, and he doesn’t understand why Mother snarls at the word _“mage”_.

He misses his brother. He asks, and Mother’s eyes narrow in disgust- Maxwell is not here, he dares not ask again... It was an accident, he mumbles, and rubs the burn on his arm. Max didn’t mean it, it was the air that caught fire, just bring Max back, what is that thing they call “the Circle”?

He is 12, and he’s proud.

Mother couldn’t be more radiant, as her form, tall and slender, towers over him; his arm hooked in his sister’s, and Evelyn’s eyes sparkle- he stands proud and strong, _that’s Trevelyan’s littlest boy, look how he has grown_.

He is 14, and he cries himself to sleep.

He thinks he’s in love. The first time he has feelings for another boy, and he’s beyond frightened. It’s confusing, shameful, _wrong_ \- it leaves him lying awake at night for hours upon hours, with shaky hands under the covers, and his mind is reeling with the indecency of it all. He’s certain the Maker will either deliver him from this evil Demon’s grasp or smite him in his rage, and he would gladly take either as he comes into his hand with a choked up, broken prayer on his lips.

He is 16, no longer scared of the Maker’s wrath, but terrified of his mother’s.

 _“Life is but a tumble between beds and coffins”_ , his nanny tells him the second time, when he comes to her in the dead of the night, ashamed and frightened, and she lays a hand on his head- a hand that smells of fresh apples and the elfroot ointment she uses on her bad knee. She smiles warmly and he lets out a deep breath, his stiff shoulders sag, as if her touch made tension evaporate.

He is 17, and he’s found out.

Clumsy, feverish hands creep into his breeches, trembling fingers grasp his arse, and he moves his hand with the other boy’s breath in his mouth; the closet door flies open, and his mother’s shrill shatters the illusion.

Father doesn’t respond, Mother refuses, and he sobs into his nanny’s shoulder like a little kid again- they don’t scold, they don’t reject, they ignore. Swept under the carpet like Maxwell, like everything else that would bring shame to the Trevelyan name- nothing but cold disappointment, pointed ignorance. _“Don’t worry little one, repent, and the Maker shall forgive.”_ And he prays, prays he’ll never fall in love again.

He is 18, and his mother loves him.

The girl smiles- she is ethereal, not even Andraste herself could be lovelier, and they spin together on the dancefloor. Her delicate, soft hand on his shoulder, in his palm, her gaze- warm, the color of roasted chestnuts- lost in his. Dull brown curls frame her heart-shaped face, her lips small and pink and bowed, tiny feet clad in the most exquisite dancing slippers, her slim waist is almost a perfect fit in his palm. Beautiful and young, free and joyful, but his charming smile is empty- do it, for Mother, and Mother is smiling back. Mother is proud, Mother accepts, ignore the hurt, focus on Mother. She’s proud of you, her little one.

Later the girl kisses him under the moonlit sky, and he obediently takes her in his arms- her softness against his chest, her heart beats against his, and he feels nothing.

He is 20, and Mother beams with pride.

Her name feels wrong in his mouth. _Angélique._ Heavy and awkward around his tongue- she laughs every time he says it wrong, so he stops saying it. She proposes ‘my dear’, ‘my love’, ‘sweetheart’- he stays silent, and her smile is sweet but her kiss is poison. She locks her fingers with his. They are to be wed. A few years until he takes his vows and is at once joined to her in a chaste marriage- promised to the Maker before each other.

He is 22, and his secret is safe. Mother made sure it would remain safe.

The wind rakes through his hair and sprays a salty, cool mist into his face as he leans over the handrail, watching Ostwick grow smaller and smaller until it disappears on the horizon, and he finally feels free, if only for a little while before he would return to his betrothed and offer himself in service to the Maker.

He is 23, and he’s marked forever as the Herald of Andraste, the closest to a living icon anyone has come in Ages.

Flashes of toxic green blind him, and the stumbles towards the glowing woman, the only solid point in the chaos. The pain in his palm is excruciating, it radiates, all the way up to his shoulder- his left arm hangs limply, useless by his side and he runs, falls, stumbles, as fast as he can.

He doesn’t return to Ostwick. Angélique writes- her first letter he tosses in the fire, but he immediately dives after the charred parchment. He salvages it before it could be consumed, and he throws it in a drawer- the smoke creeps towards the ceiling, and aeriform snakes coil around his throat; he has to leave the cot before he suffocates.

He is 23, and he grins into his pillow at night.

His cheeks burn with shame and excitement, a man’s name on his lips- he keeps it like an oath, dares speak it only in hushed whispers, _Dorian_ \- elegant and beautiful as the man himself. Varric calls him ‘Sparkler’ and he finds himself agreeing- the man does sparkle, he is bright and intense and _dazzling_ , and he’s drawn in like a moth to the flame that will ultimately consume him. He briefly thinks of Mother and Angélique, but that man is beyond all the world’s compare, and he giggles to himself like a giddy, lovesick Chantry boy.

He is 23, and the world crumbles around him.

The village burns and people scream, Sera hollers in delight as her arrow pierces the eyesocket of the _thing_ on his back and he--- _it_ falls like a sack, lifeless. Cassandra’s battle cry soars over their heads, the call of a bird of prey, and a barrier spell blinks into action on his skin- it shields him, cradles him, engulfs him in warmth and deflects a blow that could have been deadly- _“You’ll have time to thank me later!”_ , and Raymond grins, his shield crushes someone’s--- _something’s_ skull and he raises his ax with a rallying cry, _“For the Inquisition!”_

He is 23, and he faces off a man who may be a god.

The avalanche rumbles down the Frostbacks, crushing, consuming everything in its wake; the screams of the enemy are drowned out by the ringing in his ears, and he drags himself, wounded and feeble, through the snow- he briefly wonders if he has a bone in his body that’s not broken, and as his consciousness flickers, his last thoughts are a prayer to every deity he can think of- Andrastian, elven, it doesn’t matter, nobody is listening... 

Cullen screams his name, the voice is dull, as if it came from under a pillow, and people rush to his side- he doesn’t see who, his vision is white, it takes him a moment to realize his mouth and nose are full of snow.

A beacon in the dark, the anointed of the Maker, sometimes he thinks about the countless letters of Angélique that perished with Haven.

He is 23, and his fists shake with the fury of a rage demon, his nails dig into the skin deep enough to draw blood, and he _wants_ to--- he _would_ tear the world apart if only someone gave the word, he would destroy him, tear him up with his bare hands until there isn’t enough left to send back to Tevinter. He grips his friend’s shoulder, finds purchase for the both of them in that touch, and he guides them both out of the inn, not sparing a glance for the lone magister. Some hurts are not healed by ‘sorry’. Some people don’t deserve second chances.

He trembles- electricity courses through him, the body in his arms is warm and stiff and strong, the scent makes his head spin, and that adorable mustache tickles his nose. His lips taste like tar, and yet he has never felt more alive. He is 17 in that closet again.  
He shivers at the warm breath tickling the shell of his ear- that voice, deep and arousing, sinful, the way those lips form the words- _“How bad does the Inquisitor want to be?”_ \- and his blood is aflame.

He is 23, and he no longer cares.

The man in his arms is the world. Marquis and dukes with their painted faces and luxurious ensambles seem more like toads, ladies and duchesses are purged from his sight, there is nobody in this room, only them. They glide across the marble tiles, the Trevelyan and the Tevinter, the Prince and the Python- people whisper but he doesn’t care, he wants to scream it from the rooftops; his mother’s letters all burn, unread.

He is 24, and he drags himself out of the ruins- he’s bleeding, he’s battered, but he’s drunk on victory, dazed with delight, with relief, with pure, unadulterated ecstasy, and he stumbles into the mage’s arms- kissing each other senseless, right there, right in front of everyone, he could swear he hears cheering on the edges of his mind.

He is 24, and he runs up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and he pulls his advisers into a tight, grateful embrace- the crowd roars, he roars back, and the proud smile on his love’s face means more than Mother’s ever did.

He is 24, and he is home.

**Author's Note:**

> pssst I have [a tumblr](http://www.weresquirrel.tumblr.com) and i'm pretty good at hitting reblog if i may flatter myself


End file.
